


Semper Fidelis

by Ooze



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Collaboration, F/M, Gen, it's mainly a private thing but I didn't know where else to post it lmao, my portrayal of Vergil paired up with a friend's OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6339250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vergil/OC during the events of the game that's basically all you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

> A collaborative work between myself and a friend from Tumblr. It's based on a ship of ours developed through roleplay, so it really isn't integral to the DmC fandom. Sorry, this is self-indulgence.
> 
> Chapter 1 written by Ooze.

It had become increasingly hazardous to walk amongst the human populace, a figure as distinct as he, with no way to conceal himself from the eyes of those who preyed upon the people he'd been working to protect. Soon would come the time in which he'd have to retreat into safety; for now, though, he'd continue to tread carefully while anonymity remained in his favor. Thanks to the observant eyes and ears that aided him, he'd come to know where he was welcome, and where he'd best turn away. And though the city streets were strengthened in surveillance, they too managed to obscure with the bustle of human life. Vergil so expertly navigated through the crowds and the man-made obstructions, keeping to himself with tranquility clear on his features. Night would fall in hours' time, and the city would pop alight with neon and all manner of illumination. He'd wrap up before then, he hoped, to return to the shadows which he'd taken as a second home.

A shame he'd left his car further away within the district. For matters of security he'd parked it a way's away, and now he'd begun grumbling silently about how much walking he'd done in a day. He disappeared into the backstreets, blending with the shadows thanks to his dark apparel. Cameras were installed in virtually every corner, but Vergil's workers had provided him with valuable intel: the steps he took were carefully placed, having been carefully guided by predetermined paths he was advised to follow. And it was here, in the safety of darkened, secluded alleyways that he sifted toward his destination. The sounds of human life were prevalent, even here, but his auditory ability had made it easy for him to pick up the soft whimpering and grunting that had filtered into his ears. He was not as alone as he once assumed.

In actuality, he could feel a disturbance, an alteration in the air around him. A life form nearby unsettled him at first, but to the best of his knowledge it was far from harmful. His eyes scanned the shadows, finding something, _someone_ , huddled close to a wall, head down and very much ignorant toward the world. A dangerous thing to do in this city, and by the scent he picked up, that _someone_ was injured. They were a female, too, from what he could discern. She'd been hidden well, and even so, he was surprised to see that she'd chosen to stay there at all. Dumb luck—it had to be. What struck him most of all was the all too familiar scent of blood—of _demon_ —on her. Brows knitted together at the revelation. Though hesitant at first, ultimately he took a wary step forward, the soles of his shoes tapping quietly against the pavement underfoot. What kind of person would he be if he turned a blind eye to someone in need, in his presence?

As if scripted, his rustling alerted the creature, and a head of blonde whipped round in surprise. He froze as fearful eyes marked him, locking with his own a fleeting moment. She pressed herself further against the wall, a huffing now clearly audible as she made a great effort to move away. A hand flew to the cold concrete she'd rested upon, serving as ballast as she slid across the floor in an attempt to escape unknown clutches. Vergil had seen that before, that look of fear in the eyes of humanity—a look they should all become accustomed to throwing at one another once paranoia settled upon them. _He_ only hoped to prevent that, but some things were inevitable. In any case, he backed off the slightest bit, hoping to prove that his intentions were benevolent. Seemed she'd been bitten by paranoia already, a mess of stutters and rasps dripping from a nervous mouth. He could only guess as to what she'd been wanting to tell him, and as if he knew perfectly, he shook his head with firmness. Despite the cover of shadows, his keen eyesight had allowed him a better view of the female's face; blood, grime, a number of scratches, and what appeared to be a nastier cut running down from the right eyelid. Ah, she must have been left traumatized. He wouldn't blame her for it.

The poor thing had so little strength left in her, so it appeared, that her body quickly gave out under the added stress she put upon herself. In contrast, Vergil lifted a free hand, palm forward, to make it clear that no danger would come from his end. A hard thing to believe, no doubt, considering a sword rested in his other hand. Had she even taken notice of it? But he wouldn't draw it; he knew that much. “Easy,” a calmed voice reassured, “I'm not here to hurt you. I didn't even know anyone was here.” A truthful excuse that would mean little to a frightened mind. “I can see that you're in bad shape. It's not safe for you to stay out here like this.” Could she move? That hadn't appeared likely… How in god's name did she manage to survive whatever it was that assailed her? Demons were relentless, known to fight to their very last breath. And, oh, Vergil was too certain that he smelled demon on the female; an exceedingly curious fact that struck him as _awesome_ : he knew that demons would not venture out of Limbo, save for those among the _highest ranks_.

She might have been in more trouble than either of them knew.

When he took a step forward, a haggard whine in the familiar utterance of a plea was just as quickly given to his movements. She'd wanted him to stay back, to not get any closer, whatever it was—but he understood the gist of it, and out of respect he froze once more. The way she held her own frame within her arms was indicative of defensiveness, apprehension. Fear remained prevalent, but soon she'd have to let go of that protective shell. Though it was keeping her alive, it was intrusive and counterproductive all the same; her faith needed to be placed elsewhere now. As far as Vergil could see, she _needed_ help, and he just so happened to be the only living thing right there to give it. His own conscience begged it of him. There'd be no escaping this one.

“Look, you can trust me: my name is Vergil.” Firmly, now, he made himself clear, revealing his name to a potential _threat_ should she turn against him. According to psychology, exchanging first names would ease interaction between strangers. Some small amount of trust would be formed, a seed planted in either party involved for the sake of coexistence. The nephilim would require some cooperation hereafter, if only to move her. He grew impatient with words, too quickly, maybe, finding that his were only a waste of breath. The way he stood so tall, _imposing_ , almost, might have been among the many deterrents for the female. In another bid to sway her, Vergil contracted his body in a kneel; every inch a slow descent from his usual height, he brought himself closer to meeting her eye level. That only seemed to worsen the situation…

She drew inward further, though now hostility subtly marked the creases to her face. A forewarning of aggression, her intent to lash out if he made her any more uncomfortable. If words and actions had thus far not persuaded her, then what more would he do? A grimace, a knitting of dark brows—and he fixed his eyes on the tear on her face, making it quite obvious that he'd found something new to look at. That seemed to hold an effect, resulting in her shifting under his unrelenting gaze. A word crawled out of her—a squeak—and it was meant to fend him off. Another plea, perhaps one wishing for him to _leave her the hell alone_ already.

“You're not going to make it out here for very long; I'll be frank with you,” he argued in reply, gaze returning to that which stared back. “Those injuries won't heal themselves any time soon. You might even find yourself with _infections_ come morning. And if it's not your body, it's _what's out there_ that will put you down.”

A pair of eyes, rivaling in blue, widened at the remark. She knew something; so did Vergil. They appeared to understand one another, and at this singular change in behavior did he assure himself. “I know this city very well,” he added, also in reassurance to _her_. He rose, then, claiming his standard height all the while maintaining eye contact. “Nobody else is going to help you here. I'd like to tell you different, but...” Trailing off, Vergil took a step forward. Cautious in approach, mindful, doing his damnedest to appear goodhearted; another step, another, another –

With the gap between them almost nonexistent, a gloved hand was extended forth, an offering of help that could be no clearer. “I know of a place where you'll be safer, where you can _heal_ at peace. I don't blame you for being suspicious, but you'll just have to see for yourself what happens from here on out.” A mild expression painted his otherwise stony features, a glimmer of authenticity to his eyes in hopes that the battered survivor would finally be persuaded. Though she hadn't resisted, she didn't give in—not until a moment of deliberation on her part had passed, in which all she had done was scrutinize him to the best of her ability. She may not have appeared _sold_ , but her chest deflated in what he could only take as defeat. An unfamiliar hand took his own, and in that instant he could determine how much she'd been drained. Her grasp was weak, though not flimsy; she'd put actual effort into it, but ultimately the nephilim's grasp was all the more forceful, and with a steady grip he hauled her upward. Try as he might to go easy on her, he couldn't exactly make it a painless endeavor. He'd caught the wincing she'd done while she rose to her feet, but her grip hadn't once faltered. This would not be quite as easy as he'd imagined.

Vergil urged her forward, keeping beside her so as to shepherd her through the inconspicuous route he'd originally intended to take for himself. At the very first few steps, she stumbled, losing her balance and threatening to tip over. A pained hiss jumped out of her when her joints bent, but she'd been able to catch herself when an arm flew to make contact with the wall nearest to her. So, his suspicions had been confirmed: her ability to walk had been impaired. She limped along regardless, toughing it out like he hadn't seen before in others. As valiant as it was, he deemed it foolish, too. At this pace, they would take too long to reach the car he'd left still a trot away; they hadn't even so much as cleared the alleyway. The plausible outcome was becoming all the clearer, and he'd met it reluctantly. He draped a hand over her shoulder, remembering to treat her as though she were fragile, and motioned for her to face him. “This isn't going to work out,” he observed, taking particular note of the way she could hardly stand upright.

As with himself, there appeared to be a touch of reluctance in her eyes when he'd very kindly pointed out the obvious. She wasn't agreeing with something, but he couldn't determine what. Did she… want to fight on? Ridiculous! She'd run herself into the ground. That would be contrary to what Vergil was trying to achieve. He hadn't minded her desires, and rather than allow her the dignity to suffer in her own way, he imperiously snaked an arm under her legs, the other supporting her back, and hauled her up into the security of his arms. Granted, she was a grimy and bloody mess that he'd much rather not handle, but there was little choice left to him. At least he would have relieved her of her torment, or so he believed. He really couldn't put himself in her position, but he'd at least be able to get her to safety that much sooner. Tolerance on her end would see her to proper recovery.

Despite the grunting that filtered in through his ears, a protest urged for her to be put down. She didn't know that Vergil could be just as resolute, if not more. There would be no victory for her today, sadly. With the sky painting a dark lavender, there would be no time for tomfoolery. Near mindless to the female, he trod on in usual stride. Although, if anything, he _had_ noticed that she'd quit resisting at one point. No strength left to fight, most likely. By the grace of god, or whomever, Vergil had sighted the vehicle at long last; only a number of yards had passed before it'd been spotted alongside a curb. A lamplight nearby had radiated enough of its power to make the black, glossy figure identifiable to its owner. Vergil's pace quickened in anticipation, and with the night's earliest stars blinking down at the pair, he felt relief that he'd managed to _make it_. And with a load, no less.

“This is where you get off,” he announced as he stopped by the vehicle. Gently, he set down his charge, allowing her to lean against the car's cool surface. A few grunts on her part only reminded him that she was quite badly beaten. The door to the passenger side was promptly swung open, and with it had Vergil ushered her to take her seat. Strangely enough, she bothered to give him another pleading look, perhaps in some meager attempt to gain reassurance. Frightened though she remained, confused and helpless as she might've ever been, the two of them had fully understood that she would not be freed of his control, and he may as well have been the only person in this fucked up world that would, indeed, help her out. There were no two ways about it: he had roped her into his clutches, promising peace and care in exchange for nothing, and making it virtually impossible for her to choose her own way. Manipulative, perhaps cruel, but in the end it was for _her_ own good—and Vergil saw nothing more. The Order would take her in, keep her sheltered until she was well. That was all he could guarantee, and just the same he would let her go afterward if she saw fit. Of course, if he could manage to persuade her to join their ranks, then all the better. Vergil would rarely turn down a volunteer, unless she proved to be more than he bargained for.

That, however, was the least of his concerns. He seated himself next, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel with Yamato propped against the center console. He was sure to fasten the female's safety belt, though she'd have no _need_ for it considering how smoothly the drive back would be. He cast her a swift glance before the engine purred to life. “We'll be there soon. Remember: I'm trying to _help_ you. I know it's hard, but I need for you to trust in me.”

Along the trip, they fell into silence. Vergil preferred not to utter a word more. The proof his passenger sought would soon come to meet her. He was certain, only then, that she would finally will her faith into his intentions. Still, he found it _odd_ that he should hear an apology from her so early on, a simple _“I'm sorry”_ being all that she could muster in spite of herself. What was this? He couldn't stop himself from giving her another glance, though one longer-lived with a puzzled look across his features. And despite his lack of comprehension, he didn't press her; if she felt like a burden to him now, that was nothing due unto her, as it was _Vergil_ who'd made the decision and claimed responsibility. He wouldn't chastise her, either, for thinking she owed him. The apology was left very well alone, and Vergil hadn't spent another moment in thought over it. All things would clear up in time: that was his belief.


	2. Little Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 written by [Sora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YukitenTheDark/pseuds/rxdiansa).

_An ethereal glow arose from the crackled skin of dying tree, crisp gray leaves swaying in some unseen, unfelt solemn breeze, but she could only gaze upon it in confusion and approach, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. There was something undeniably sad about it, as its slip into deep slumber was to be spent alone and fraught with some unknown sting of pain clinging to what remained of its otherwise otherworldly spirit. Its glow was fading as it died, perhaps too slowly, and that tired white was the only light in the vast expanse of nothingness beyond - and upon realizing so, Bianca pressed her hands against rough bark like a frightened child, digging her fingertips into lifeless skin._

_It was completely and utterly alone, left to suffer in the darkness without hope, and as it faded, as its light was stolen away, an unbearable chill erupted in its flesh. At first, it seemed as though it had taken its final breath, but she couldn’t remove herself, tear her fingers from it, frozen to the spot. She knit her brows and made an attempt to pull herself away, but no matter how much of her strength she put into it, she couldn’t be free._

_As if on cue, panic set in, a relentless stream of frightened thoughts racing through her mind at the same pace as the vicious chill began to spread into her fingers-- And it shot into her bones, curdling her blood, spreading and spreading like a cancer. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, but it would slow, the freezing chill reaching its tendrils around the thrumming organ in tandem with its ceasing of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. And it was then she realized, that the tree was not alone, for it would take her with it, forcing every ounce of stinging pain and immobility it felt right into her as well. It was not alone._

_This would be her grave._

She woke with a start, heels digging into the mattress, sweat dripping down her face, digits clutching at the worn fabric over her heart, pressed into a mess of pillows against the headboard as if her very life had depended on it. And perhaps, as she recognized it for what it was, the most frightening part of it all was the fact that trails of ice had frozen her other fingers into the sheets and filled her to the brim with a numbness she’d only ever felt in various moments of panic and fright. Wide blue eyes avoided a swollen knee and followed swirls of ice daring to spread further like a cancer, as if it’s sole purpose were to _contaminate_. It made her sick, her belly lurching, head spinning. Her head lolled back, eyes rolling behind her eyelids, and she breathed through teeth she hadn’t realized she’d been clenching.

But she couldn’t relax her muscles, allow her guard to fall. No - the air was too cold and she was vulnerable, recovering from whatever unbearable spell of nightmares she’d been caught in, alarmed by the sudden release of ice in her sleep. She’d tried so hard to get away from that awful thing, trapped in its darkness, unable to pull herself free of its clutches, only to wake stuck inside her own. It was then that the memories of the night prior flashed in her mind, reminding her of the chill of the dank alleyway and the silver-haired stranger who retained the thick, velveteen musk of a demon and something...something sweet, but she couldn’t place it, couldn’t place his unusual need to assist her, couldn’t place her trust in him.

Bianca couldn’t delve much further into the subject, interrupted by a painful cold she couldn’t ignore for much longer. She tried, with quite some effort, and successfully pried her arms free of the frozen sheets and thusly held herself, warming her icy fingers by rubbing her arms. She just hoped that, wherever she was, no one would come in and see the tendrils running across the stone floor. And she hoped that she could return to the darkness behind her eyelids and sleep a little longer, to pretend there was no exhaustion and fear and confusion and distrust…

She let out a whimper, a tiny, physical betrayal of her emotions, if her thoughts hadn’t been enough, and turned onto her side, pouring all of her strength into the action. Once the ice slipped from her fingers, melted, she was able to pull the blankets around herself, only to wince and groan at the sharp pain writhing under the skin of her knee and hip like worms. It made her nauseous and stopped her from moving further. It seemed that no matter how rattled and uncomfortable she might be, there would be no way of alleviating such things.

There was a soft rapping upon the door to her... _room;_ was that where she was? Did it matter? And the creaking of hinges sounded just after as it swung open, a hard, masculine voice filling the room with command and certainty. It was...frightening. “Excuse me.”

She couldn’t bring herself to turn over and face whoever’d wandered into her space, nor could she spare the time to worry over the crackling ice all over the floor, _no_. She cowered in the bed, a mess, and did not elicit so much as a sigh. She swallowed, held herself tighter, and kept her eyes shut tight, mulling over the same thought over and over again: _go away_.

Much to her dismay, the owner of that voice did quite the opposite. He stayed.

“I’ve been sent to make sure you’ve recovered some. The boss said he’d found you and requested someone keep an eye on you, given the injuries you’d sustained, your obvious malnutrition…” The trailing of their voice sounded too much like something had caught their attention and all that fear, all that worry over someone catching sight of her tendrils of ice, came crashing over her like a tidal wave. What would they think if they saw? Would they brand her a demon and have her thrown to the monsters lurking in the shadows outside? Or would they kill her? All she’d seen, all she’d run from, all she’d done-- “Miss, are you awake?”

She wasn’t convinced he’d not seen the chilly blue spidering across the floor, or the frost gracing her blanket, but she was grateful he made no audible note of it, opting instead to step closer and repeat his question at a much softer volume, the tapping of a pencil on something wooden following. But this, too, proved to be quite overwhelming. _Oh,_ she didn’t know what to do, trapped by so much fear. “Miss?”

He stopped then, as if reevaluating his approach, thinking better of it, mumbling a plethora of words she couldn’t quite catch. The intruder remained for only a moment longer before tapping his pencil once more, the squeal of leather upon wet stone following. He must’ve turned on his heel, leaving her to her fright, _unease_. As the door clicked shut behind him, a minute wave of relief washed over her and she took comfort in the chilly blanket she cocooned herself within, safe for the moment. The isolation was welcome, perhaps more than it should’ve been, but she did not belong here and the moment anyone in this place discovered the truth of that, she would be outed – or killed, thrown to the wolves as a meal to stave off the enemy.

Bianca swallowed, her crippled nerves buzzing with persistent dread, playing and replaying the scenario in her mind; so many people consumed by their own fear of the devils hiding among them, wearing similar skins like wolves in sheep’s clothing, that they would drag a frightened woman out of her bed, frightened by the ice radiating from her fingers, and toss her back into the fray to be devoured as if a _sacrifice_. Her stomach turned. All she could see was a flurry of snow, her breath visible in the cool night air, powerless to stop the horde that came for her, ripping her apart at every seem. In the wake of such a frightening image, she couldn’t help but wallow in her panic, anxious that the people who took her in would indeed force her back into the alley they plucked her from. Even if they wouldn’t, even if they were better people than that, even if they did not fear her, she would have to leave anyway, for the world was cruel and she was a frightened child lost in the crowd.

Some part of her tried to see reason, bringing to mind the idea that she should be _thankful_ the man who found her, as thick as that velveteen devil scent was, gave her shelter, asking for nothing in return, and in her heart, she knew she had no right to suspect him of a crime he wasn’t likely to commit, no matter how afraid she was. However, that small part of her was often silenced by the louder, more frantic one. It was stubborn, perhaps more stubborn than she. Still, she couldn’t leave, every ounce of her body tired and burning with the pain of hunger and the past weeks’ injuries, rendering her entirely immobile. Tossing and turning in a bed that did not belong to her was all she could do, burying her face in alien fabrics to _hide_. It was shameful, how weak she was right now….

Her thoughts were disturbed by the soft opening of the door, her eyes snapping open wide as _that_ smell wafted into her nostrils. It was _his_ , the man who peeled her from the dirty, wet ground, fresh and clean, velvet so well taken care of—She couldn’t help but shudder, the reason escaping her entirely as he invaded her space, commanding her attention without so much as a quiet announcement of his entrance. Her unease only worsened. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed how much time had slipped by; it felt like only moments ago the other man was in her room, begging for her attention. Her teeth had dug themselves firmly into her bottom lip in an effort to keep her silent and she breathed as slowly as she could through her nose to have him assume she were asleep, to fool him like the other.

“I know you’re awake.” He wasn’t fooled, seeing through her attempt at deception _quite_ easily. She wasn’t surprised, no, but she didn’t want to give in. There was too much at stake for her to give up-- “You needn’t be afraid of me.”

How could he be so sure? What she remembered of his face was blurry, but she could make out a strong jaw, pale flesh, _cold_ eyes, silver hair dusting his brow, and only a vague expression of concern. Gloved hands, _impersonal_. A weapon, a sword tight in his grasp, _dangerous_. His voice, however, didn’t match. It was soft as silk, as if to coax her into facing him and lowering her guard, and gentle, like a song, and she wasn’t sure if she should be _more_ afraid of him then.


	3. A Game of Cat and Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 written by Ooze

It rather intrigued him, the situation he'd put himself in. It wasn't every so often that he'd tear people right off the street, promising sanctuary for nothing in turn. It wasn't business, not out of necessity that he would s _ave_ those in dire straits. His will to help, to be seen a savior, was innate. Actions would speak louder than the excuses he'd formulate, no matter how convincing his tone or his wording. When he was greeted by his followers, so loyal as they were, they'd hesitated when their eyes drifted toward she whom their leader had brought along. And all he needed to do was bark and point, and they would bend to his word—his _law_. No arguments whatsoever. Thus, his people were urged to see her to the infirmary. With haste they carried her off, and Vergil had done what he'd ensured. Of course, he was not rid of the complication. Not by a long shot. Even though he'd secured a smidgen of the girl's trust—or was that only sheer helplessness on her end?—he knew that scraping her off the concrete would not nearly be enough in the grand scheme of things. Aside from that, he'd shown her the inner workings of his private enclave. Maybe not all of it, but quite enough of it to lead her to ask for more. Then again, he'd noticed she'd blacked out a way's away, before driving up to the establishment to begin with. Exhaustion had robbed her of the opportunity to get a load of where it was he intended on taking her, but soon enough she would see the truth revealed. The medical facilities should be a kind welcome to distrustful eyes. It would soften the blow for her, Vergil believed.

But how to explain it all: that would be a different complication entirely. There was no sense in telling her just the kind of place he'd brought her to, but no point in lying, either. Given the misleading, criminal accusations made by national media, it would be nigh impossible to convince _anyone_ off the street that The Order was, in fact, an amalgam of freedom fighters all disposed to serve a greater purpose—one greater than Vergil. He could only hope to sway her with the kindness he and his followers would show her. As it happened, she was one of the millions The Order hoped to aid. Forethought would help him in only small ways, unfortunately. The bridge he thought to build would only be crossed once he took his first steps upon it. He would have to wait until the girl regained consciousness, recovered in some way. He would busy himself in the meantime, not being one for full nights of sleep, anyway. And, as he, his staff would work around the clock.

The night was spent sleepless. Vergil holed himself up in his study, active throughout all hours doing one thing or another. Medical staff had decided to report in once, noting the girl's condition as “steady” and leaving her to rest all throughout the night. She was far outside the realm of becoming a critical case, and so they deemed it just to not worry themselves frantic over her. With the coming of dawn came another vague report, noting their visitor's condition to be the same as when they'd checked in last. Only a pair of reports for their boss to go by, and it turned out to be insufficient. No matter how turbulent his thought processes, he set aside a fragment of himself in order to call upon a member of his staff; to ask that they check up on the young lady, upon _his_ command, who was _due_ to awaken upon the coming of the tenth hour, at least by Vergil's judgment.

As luck would have it, he wasn't quite prepared to have them return to him with a hesitation, a _worry_ of their own. Given the need for his attention, he broke away from the bubble he embroiled himself in and was just as skillful in composing himself accordingly for the development at hand. It seemed their newest arrival had awoken after all, and her unwillingness to cooperate provided a complication. In truth, Vergil had foreseen something like it, but not even foresight was enough to grant him the wisdom with which he should act. He could only assume she would be more apt to respond to him rather than the other members with whom she was grossly unfamiliar. He, at least, had given her his name and his benevolence, and a face she could pin it all upon. The staff member had stopped feet away from the door, and with nary more than a motioning of his head, he indicated to his boss the room that had been selected for her.

There was no ignoring the chill that struck Vergil when he first entered. He paused only the slightest at the doorway, eyes falling to meet clear, hardened trails crawling around the bedstead; and his eyes fell further to trace along those same trails that sprawled onto the floor. Wisely, he shut the door only seconds after having opened it so as not to lead his worker toward added suspicion. They'd made mention of the substance they'd found in her room, and they were in quite a dither over it. Now Vergil had understood why. And _she_ knew, too, didn't she? The poor thing was conscious, he could tell, and she hid from him beneath the sheets like a child would from boogeymen. He supposed he couldn't blame her for it. “I know you're awake.”

He glanced at a handful of wet stains spotted upon the sheets, likely from frost that had melted there earlier. He noticed, too, the small puddles forming from the melting substance on the floor. He'd stepped into one, in fact, and it rose many a question in his quietly calculating mind. Nothing on the side of simple logic could put his suspicions at ease, however: everything at The Order worked in optimal condition, from the air conditioning to the water supply, to the very staff who kept headquarters running at standard. And though what he concluded to be _ice_ had mostly begun melting, he still felt the biting chill in the room through his thin, long-sleeved garment. His voice came again, smooth and _inviting_. “You needn't be afraid of me.” And still no response from her. She was hesitating all the more, wasn't she?

“I only want to know if you're all right. You were in deplorable shape when I'd found you,” he added, tone not once rising or wavering. His determination was mixed with, regrettably, impatience; he stepped closer toward the bed as if he believed gaining proximity would smooth the tension in the air. His footsteps, though slow, were marked so she'd have an understanding of where he positioned himself. Only at the foot of the bed, and deciding to linger there, did he close in. Not a doubt in his mind existed that she would hate to have him any closer. Still, an itch to pull the sheets away just so she would quit hiding was beginning to nip at his nerves. Her breathing was easy to catch in such a quiet room, given his ability to hear _more_ than the average human ear. It was irregular, marked with anxiety—further evidence that she lay awake. Vergil only spent a minute in wait. It was his hope that the young lady would rouse herself with courage, but, alas…

“You aren't going to get anything out of keeping quiet. I won't be able to help you if you don't cooperate with us. I gave you my name last night. Do you remember it? You _can_ trust me despite your unwillingness to do so. I wouldn't give my name to just anyone without any good reason, and I saw reason enough when I saw _you_.” Pleading with her again: he thought he was _over_ that, though foolishly so. He should have known better, and perhaps he did; it was just an attempt at stoking some fire, fanning some flame she repressed. This game of cat-and-mouse was not much more fun today than it had been last night, unfortunately. Time was being wasted.

At least his patience would be rewarded: when the blanket began to move, he realized there was hope yet. The poor thing, uneasy as she was, peered at him from beyond the fabric that shielded her as it was pulled ever so slightly away from her face. Her brows were tightly drawn while she regarded him with caution. Funny, she looked more like a _rat_ than a mouse now. Vergil wished to prod her further, but she was showing a willingness, though small, to listen—or to chew him out for his badgering. Would she bite? He was coaxing her along, now.

“That's better,” he praised, quirking one of his own brows as he watched her features and their slightest, faintest changes. “I'm being honest with you. I want to know what you're feeling: pains, symptoms, even emotions.” But he could already gather what it was she'd been feeling at the time, and all the time before that led to this. And despite the way she would leer at him, judging in her silent way, his own facial expression remained fixed, in all of its apparent apathy. All he wanted was to know how she'd been doing, and if he could learn her name through this, then all the better. He needed an edge; something _personal_ of hers would make it all the easier to crack open the bubble encasing her mind. Still, there persisted deliberation, or outright reluctance on her end. Of course, she should come to realize that enduring silence would only result in added intervention. This girl knew how to hold her tongue: he would give her that.


End file.
